


After the Fall

by daisybelle



Series: Inbetween [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-14
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 05:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisybelle/pseuds/daisybelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story deals with John's grief and how others see him. It will also deal with some unanswered questions about Moriarty's set-up. Set after Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lestrade

They brought him in. They really brought John Watson in.

Just as Lestrade had thought his day couldn't get worse, he was informed that the coppers had arrested John Watson. Of course, Lestrade knew technically John Watson was a fugitive, but to arrest him on the site where his best friend just committed suicide was just plainly wrong. Couldn't they see it? When had they all become so stupid?

Funny enough, it was the moment when he watched John Watson being taken to the cells that he understood. Understood how Sherlock must have felt all the time waiting for them to catch up with the genius' mind. Understood that Sherlock wasn't a fraud, had nothing to do with the abduction of the children. Understood that the last 24 hours had all been a lie. Well, except for the body in the morgue and the broken man in the cells.

Lestrade might not always been able to understand Sherlock Holmes, well, almost never, but he knew the John Watsons of this world. And during the past 18 months he got to know this John Watson a great deal. John Watson was a doctor and a soldier. It takes a lot to impress someone who has seen the real battlefield, who had operated under conditions almost impossible to imagine.

After the cabbie-incident the Detective Inspector had called in some favours and got his hands on John Watson's military record. Interestingly enough he had heard the record's description of Captain John Watson before: Crack shot, high moral principles. It confirmed his initial suspicion who might be responsible for the death of the cabbie. He had not pursuit this investigation any further and he was glad that the bullet taken out of the cabbie was no use for evidence. Shooting through glass had changed any patterns which might have come from the original weapon. There was no way to prove that the bullet came from a certain Browning in the doctor's possession.

During the following months, Lestrade and John had become friends. They shared some pints at the pub, they shared their life stories. Sometimes the doctor would just listen after a particular bad day, remained silent if needed or offered an opinion. Other times it was Lestrade's turn to listen, when John complained about Sherlock or his love life. Personally the Police man thought, the greatest love in John's life was Sherlock and that there was a reason why all the other relationships got messed up, but he never mentioned it.

Lestrade now also remembered when he had met Sherlock for the first time, long before John Watson. He had found the man lying nearly unconscious on the street when he was on his way back from a murder scene. Although high on cocaine, Sherlock had done his deducing thing, telling Lestrade's life story up to the latest quarrel with his wife and solved the murder. There was no way this could have been staged. And Lestrade had seen Sherlock doing it all the time, deducing things about total strangers and being almost always right.

To the grief in his stomach came the remorse. Regrets for doubting the man. And even more for the fact that he couldn't apologise to Sherlock in person. But he could set some other things right. There was no way John Watson would stay in the cell tonight. Although he knew it wouldn't matter to John, because there was nothing that mattered in the personal hell John was in right now. Lestrade had seen grief in many forms during his years at the force, but the emptiness in John's eyes was nauseating.

It took all of Lestrade's training not to give in, not to sob, but to walk to his Chief Superintendent and convince him to drop the charges. The man must have sensed Lestrade's determination, because only 15 minutes later the Detective Inspector led the small figure of John Watson to his car and drove him home. Mrs Hudson, their landlady took over from here and it finally broke Lestrade's heart when he saw the shell of John Watson climbing slowly up the stairs and realised that there was no one waiting at the other side of the door.

The DI didn't know why but he took the detour over Bart's back to the yard. It seemed almost unreal, nothing indicated that a great man had died there today. All Lestrade could see was an already torn edition of the morning paper.

_Suicide of Fake Genius_


	2. Nicholas Cartwright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I borrowed Nicholas Cartwright from John Taylor's short story „An Inscrutable Masquerade" from „Sherlock Holmes – The rediscovered Railway Mysteries and other stories"

Nicholas Cartwright always prided himself as a man with nerves of steel. As war reporter for The Times he was quite thankful for that. But when he saw John Watson for the first time after his flatmate's death, he was startled. This was not the man he knew from university, this was not the man he remembered from his time as journalist in Afghanistan.

The John Watson back then had a thing for adventure and a thing for people. Nicholas had always thought that John Watson's heart would make him a weaker doctor, but he had witnessed several times that this caring attitude actually saved lives. If there were lives at stake, John Watson would go and try his best regardless of the danger. The student John Watson and the soldier John Watson were both very much alive. And Nicholas Cartwright was it too, thanks to the soldier.

After John's injury their friendship had drifted apart, something the journalist felt responsible for. But John had easily forgiven him, knowing the madness of the war. Cartwright had sensed the depression following Afghanistan, but there was nothing he could do about it, being thousands of miles away in some desert. He was relieved when John had met Sherlock and although he felt a slight stitch that his days as John Watson's best friend were finally over, he knew the doctor well enough to be sure that John Watson would always care for him.

Cartwright had met the Consulting Detective once, before all the media frenzy was brought upon them. It was an awkward meeting and if the stories he had heard later about him were only half true, Sherlock Holmes had been almost nice to him. Probably because of John Watson. The doctor had that effect on people. And the journalist had caught tiny glimpses of affection from the detective for his flatmate. The was the only reason why he had put up with the icy arrogance of the man.

And now this man was dead. And Nicholas Cartwright stood in front of a broken John Watson. He recognised the soldier in him, but he didn't see his friend. He just saw a cautious man who asked in an almost unrecognisable voice: "What are you doing here?"

Cartwright had of course read the stories about the detective. That he had faked everything, that he had paid an actor to pose as Jim Moriarty, the Consulting Criminal. And from a professional point he admired his colleague Kitty Riley for this scoop. He thought her masterpiece was the story The Sun had published two days after the suicide: _His last blow_

They had found the body of Richard Brook, the actor, on the rooftop. Apparently he had committed suicide, but Kitty Riley had written a heartbreaking story how Sherlock Holmes had cornered the man, threatened him and the poor bloke hadn't seen any other way. Riley made Brook's death to a fairytale in which truth conquers death.

Usually, Cartwright couldn't care less what the tabloids were publishing. But he had known the man, and even if he had been a cold bastard, the journalist trusted John Watson's judgement. "I'm here as a friend, not as a journalist." And he was glad when the doctor let him enter. It wasn't Baker Street anymore. In fact, the flat looked quite the opposite of Baker Street. No papers lying around, no chemical equipment on the kitchen table. Everything was tidy, any army general would have cried tears of joy.

It worried Cartwright. He was even more worried when he watched his friend. His movements were mechanic, conversation was lost on him, he drifted away, staring on something only he could see. They always say the pen is mightier than the sword, but both combined could obviously break a man like John Watson. There was no way Cartwright could bring back Sherlock Holmes to life. But maybe he could clear his name. He was a decorated journalist, writing for a renown paper. It was time to return a favour.

When he finally left John Watson he went straight to Bart's. The journalist stood on the suicide scene, making a fast sketch of the surrounding buildings and the locations of CCTV. He even went on the rooftop, again looking for CCTV. The last minutes of both men – Sherlock Holmes and Richard Brook/Jim Moriarty – they should be telling. He hoped there would be some footage, Cartwright would make an official inquiry.

Knowing the English bureaucracy this could take ages. The other lead should be obviously the money trail, but this would be even more difficult. Maybe he could charm his way into Baker Street, looking for account statements. Or he could ask John, but this should be his last resort. First he wanted to know what he would find. So he would go and check some of the details mentioned in Riley's stories about Brook, speak to people, see if they in fact knew Richard Brook.

The Sherlock Holmes he had met was all about the details. So if he set up an actor to pose as Moriarty, would he really take someone who obviously had some moderate success? The storyteller on a children's DVD – how to be sure that nobody would recognise him? Maybe he should also get his hands on the last case, the abduction of those children. What was the actual evidence against Sherlock Holmes?

This could be interesting. And a nice change of scenery from the war. He just hoped that his research would actually lead to something. Something to fix John Watson. If not, he wouldn't tell him. Nicholas Cartwright was not the man to destroy the last thing what kept the doctor sane, his unshakeable belief in his friend.

Five days after his official request for the CCTV footage he found an envelope on his doorstep. A DVD offering different angles on what happened on a certain rooftop in London ten days earlier.


	3. Ella

 

"Why today?"

In a way Ella had been surprised and not surprised at the same time by the appearance of John Watson on her appointment list. Surprised because after their final meeting, after he had moved in with this other man, she saw the improvement. And she had been glad to take this stubborn silent man off her patient list because obviously he had found again something to live for. She knew her limitations when it came to help her patients. Sometimes she even wondered if she was the right person to help them, if she helped them at all. And under all her professionalism it broke her heart every time she lost one of those ex-soldiers to his own gun. So she had been surprised.

But on the other hand, yesterday had been the funeral of Sherlock Holmes. Ella had no opinion of this man, she wasn't interested in him. But she felt sorry for the man in front of her. The three days after the suicide the media had a field day. It was "Fake genius" all over them. Today's paper had only a little column about the burial of Sherlock Holmes: _A grave ritual_ Even this had to be spread out for all of their readers. No privacy for Sherlock Holmes.

"You wanna hear me say it?"

Want was the wrong word. She needed to hear it. It was part of the therapy. And after her last experience with this man, she dreaded long hours of silence. She needed to keep him talking. Telling her why he was here, so she chose the indirect route.

"18 months since our last appointment."

It got her a reaction.

"You read the papers?"

Of course she did. Usually she only checked for dead soldiers back in Afghanistan or Iraq or where else her patients had been stationed, preparing herself for some kind of reaction if somebody close to them had died on duty. But it was hard to ignore all the headlines about the detective. Something she wouldn't tell the Doctor in front of her.

"Sometimes."

At least he kept on talking, even when he lost his patience with her.

"And you watch telly? You know why I'm here. I'm here bec …"

And he lost his control. She didn't know whether this would make it easier to work with him or worse. But at least she got something to go on.

"What happened, John?"

He needed to say it. It was the first step.

"Sher …"

It had to be said, even if it broke his heart. Again.

"You need to get it out."

Ella could see how he tried to. It was the first time she witnessed that this man did what she told him. Yes, he had started his blog because of her, but he never wrote anything in until he had met Sherlock Holmes. And she couldn't think of a reason why he would continue it now. Especially now.

"My best friend … Sherlock Holmes … is dead."

It were moments like these when she was glad for her professional training. Otherwise it would break her heart seeing the despair, hearing him admitting something so painful. And Ella knew she would need more of her professional armour. Because this time Dr. Watson obviusly would talk. She had read the papers and she knew that this man had not only lost his best friend, but literally everybody to talk to. Because his best friend was accused of being a liar, of being the bad guy. And those on the dark side seldom received a shoulder to cry on, an opportunity to lay their emotions out. Or those shoulders belonged to people who were equally suffering. Somehow Ella knew she was only his emotional wastebasket because he knew her from before. Before everything happened to him.

"Tell me about him. Why was he your best friend?"

The look he gave her proved that this was not the first time he had heard this question. But apparently it was the first time he would answer it. She watched him collecting his breath, regaining composure, slipping in soldier mode. It was not the first time she witnessed one of her patients claiming control by relying on the army training. This behaviour had its uses, getting them back in charge of their emotions. Something most of them terribly needed. Although she knew it would only take them so far before everything would fall apart. But for the moment she would let it go, because at the moment the only thing she could do for John Watson was listening while he was talking about his friend.

About their first meeting, how Sherlock Holmes had cured the psychosomatic limp (so, she had been at least right about that), how they solved cases together. How the other man would never clean or buy groceries or play the violin in the darkest hours of the night. How he saved him from the nightmares or brought him a CD because he had noticed that he liked the song. And Ella listened, listened to details of a relationship that went deeper than some marriages she knew. It worried her.

It worried her because she realised while she was listening and making notes that her first diagnosis all those months ago had been wrong. Dr. Watson hadn't suffered from PTSD, he was craving for the danger, the adrenaline rush. And now he had not only lost someone he loved, but once again his favourite drug of choice. This time would be so much harder helping him than 18 months ago. And she hadn't been able to help him 18 months ago. The man who died was responsible for that.

But Dr. Watson had come to her. He may not trust her, but he needed her. Well, at least her capability to listen. And Ella could give him that. Listening when he needed it. Asking stupid questions although she knew the answers. Helping him focus on his emotions. Offering some course of action.

"The stuff that you wanted to say … but didn't say it."

"Yeah."

"Say it now!"

"No … I'm sorry. I can't."

After that there was a long silence. They were both listening to the rain clattering against the windows, to the things that had been said. And especially to those that were left untold. Ella didn't need her psychology diploma to know that most of the times people regret things they haven't done, haven't said. Because they took what they had for granted.

"Why don't you tell him?"


	4. Sarah

Sarah wished she knew what to say. All about this situation was so awkward. Here they were again talking about a job at the clinic. This time a permanent one. Sarah didn't know why he was applying at her clinic. Here everybody knew him, knew about their past, about his past. Knew why his eyes showed nothing but sadness. Knew why he was holding himself in a rigid posture. If it had been anybody else, Sarah had assumed he was nervous because of the job interview. But John Watson was not nervous, he was trying to hold himself together.

Once again she was studying his CV, once again she was aware that his training was far too advanced for the needs of the clinic. Once again she understood that he needed a job. But this time not solely for the money. This time it was a way to keep his mind occupied. And that made everything so different. This was not the cheerful flirting man from the first interview. He was polite, but no humour. He was calm, but now it made her nervous. It had only been a few months since they had sat the last time in her office talking, but the Dr. Watson in front of her was a complete stranger.

A complete stranger who once had been a possible husband. After the disastrous first date they managed a few more, but somehow it never worked out. Because his priorities were pretty clear. And she had never been number one. She wondered if she even had made it to the second place, but decided there was no point in thinking about it. Thinking about what they could have been if it hadn't been for his friend.

Sherlock Holmes who dragged John to crime scenes and around the town.

Sherlock Holmes who made it pretty clear that he thought John should better be with him than with her.

Sherlock Holmes who didn't care for people, only for John.

Sherlock Holmes who was now dead.

It felt almost unbelievable. If someone had told her all those months ago, that Sherlock Holmes would commit suicide she would not have believed it. And she was still struggling because it didn't match the impression she had of him. Sarah had still followed John's blog, even after they had only sporadically contact via email. And she had read the papers. But it never felt right, as if something important hadn't been told.

She tried to stay neutral and only strip the facts from articles in The Sun, but it was very confusing. And lately they had only repeated their accusations. Probably because of The Times article which described what had happened on the rooftop of Bart's, how Sherlock Holmes and the other guy were talking to each other. That it was evident, that the actor who played this Moriarty character hadn't been afraid of Sherlock Holmes. And they had put the video on their website.

The video contained material of several cameras. One edited version always showed the best angle on the conversation since both men were moving on the rooftop and sometimes out of the camera zoom, but the newspaper had also uploaded the unedited versions of each camera recording. It was disturbing to watch on so many levels. Without sound the only way to get information was the body language. And Sarah had seen a Sherlock Holmes she didn't know before. One who was unsure and insecure. One who hesitated. Certainly he threatened the other man, but somehow the other seemed totally in control of the situation. Not like a man who feared for his life because he had told the truth like The Sun had written. And it took Sherlock Holmes definitely by surprise that this man was killing himself. (They had blurred that bit out, you could only guess the movement and the gun, but the effect was quite clear.)

But the most disturbing was certainly seeing Sherlock Holmes stepping on the small balustrade and taking out his phone. The videos would all stop when the Detective had thrown the phone away. Sarah was pretty sure she knew who he had called and just thinking about it makes her sad and tears tried to form in her eyes. Because whatever went wrong between her and John Watson, he didn't deserve that. Being on the phone while his friend was jumping from a roof. Witnessing his friend jumping from a roof.

And it made this situation so awkward. Because she honestly doesn't know what she should say. Everything what had happened just seemed so wrong, as if they were caught in a bad movie. So Sarah decided to go for the actual interview. She asked him questions about his experiences, his preferances regarding his working hours, his salary. Like it was the first time they actually met, starting with a clean sheet. Sarah wasn't sure, but she got the feeling that John had now more solid ground under his feet. She saw the gratitude in his eyes. It did not chase away the sadness, but his rigid posture was softening a bit. Maybe that's why John Watson had applied at her clinic. Because he would be recognised anywhere. Everybody would knew about his past, his friend. But she wouldn't ask him questions about Sherlock Holmes. She could offer some kind of normalcy.

And maybe there was something else she could offer. Sarah knew that John Watson was addicted to danger, to the adrenaline. Well, she had no access to crime scenes, but she knew the head of the trauma department at St. Mary's and they were always in need of good surgeons. Maybe he could take some shifts there too. It probably couldn't compare to chasing criminals or operating while being shot at, but in her experience the emergency station of a hospital was always a pretty exciting mess. Normally she wouldn't recommend something like this to a clearly desperate man. But John wasn't normal and he obviously needed something to go on.


	5. Mrs. Hudson

'Funny', thought Martha Hudson, 'Scotland Yard doesn't look like in these Crime Shows in TV'. It was an odd train of thought, especially while being at the Yard to talk about an obviously murdered assassin, but the elder lady couldn't help it. Although she had met lots of police officers during the time Sherlock had been her tenant, she has never been at the Yard. And the only other time she had been sitting in a Police Station, had been in Miami. And it also had looked rather different than the Crime Shows. But back then, she hadn't paid attention to this rather unimportant fact. She had been to occupied with her husband, what he had been accused of and the fact that she had obviously never known the man she was married to.

Well, this time it was rather obvious that she hadn't known the man. Mrs Hudson had hired him as a repairman. Admittedly, he had looked quite grim with his bald head and all those tattoos, but she wouldn't hold his looks against him. After all, there were all sorts of at Baker Street. And he had done a decent job repairing all those tiny defects of an old house. He had been easy to chat with and was always so polite. Very thankful when she had made him tea despite being his employer, not the housemaid or something like that.

And this Detective Dimmock now told her that he had been an assassin who had half Europe looking for him. It seemed pretty strange for her, that someone like him would be a professional killer, but the Detective seemed quite sure. John Watson seemed to believe him, he wasn't even surprised by the dead man's real job.

"What happened?"

"Single gunshot wound. Found at the London Bridge, lying halfway in the water. Maybe somebody tried to get rid of the body."

John snorted: "You said he was a professional assassin. Somebody is able to kill a pro with one shot and then so clumsy in hiding the body? I think, whoever did this wanted this body to be found. Maybe send a message."

Martha Hudson didn't want to think about people who were sending messages by killing other people. She certainly didn't expect it when she had recognised the picture in the newspaper. The police had asked if anybody could tell something about him. Well, she couldn't tell much, but he had been very nice to her and had helped her. It was the least she could do. But now she was glad that she had asked John to accompany her. Murderers and assassins were more his business or better said, had been Sherlock's. She had just been the landlady of the Consulting Detective. Yes, sometimes she had greeted some of his clients or offered them tea and biscuits. But that was normal, after all how would he have paid the rent, if those clients were chased away by his rude manners. Not that there had been any reason to worry. Sherlock and John had always paid in time for 221B.

As now did Mycroft and John despite no one living there any longer. After the funeral John had refused to return to the flat, he hadn't even set a foot in her house. But he still paid his share. She didn't know for sure whether John was aware that Mycroft took care of the other half, but she assumed it. Martha Hudson had once tried to stop either man's payments, but both had refused to even listen to her reasons. She was only glad that John got his job at the surgery back, so he wasn't lacking any funds, while paying for Baker Street and the other tiny flat he had rented. It was on the other side of town, as if he was avoiding anything that reminded him of his former flatmate.

But he had promised her that he was only one phone call away when she needed him. She was tempted to call him more often than she already did because the house was so awfully quiet. Every now and then she caught herself listening for some noises from the above flat, only to remember that there was nobody left to make any noise. Only the mess Sherlock and John had created and left behind. Sometimes she would go upstairs to do a little dusting, but she kept everything as it was. She had even unpacked Sherlock's science stuff. Somehow the kitchen table had looked very weird without it.

Oh, how she missed having the boys around. All those times she craved for one silent night, and now this silence was the worst part. All the other tenants before Sherlock had been very considerate, very nice, she had seldom registered their presence. But Sherlock and John had been like sons to her and now both had left her, one way or another. Although, she and John met regularly. Sometimes at cafes, sometimes they drove to the grave. Sometimes they would just drink their tea, other times John would tell stories about his patients, his work at the Emergency Room of St. Mary's, or his landlady would entertain him with stories of the Speedy's staff or from Mrs. Turner's.

But they seldom talked about Sherlock, the wound still too fresh, too deep. They both knew what they had lost. She could still see it in John's eyes. This heartbreaking grief and sadness that had replaced the emptiness. And it worried her, because when they were together they could handle the loss. But how was it for John when he was alone in his new flat?

She looked at him, tried to do what Sherlock had done all the time. Reading people with one glance. But all she could see now was irritation with the inspector and the impatience while waiting that they got the paperwork done. He wasback on soldier mode, as she called it silently, like always when he didn't want to show his feelings. He had been in soldier mode very often during the past months.

The doctor kept it up until they were finally allowed to leave the Yard. Mrs Hudson wasrelieved, when they were back on the street. She saw the concern entering the John's eyes, it reminded her of the days before Sherlock's death. He spent the whole afternoon with her, taking her to a cafe and a walk through the park before kissing her goodbye on the cheek in front of her door. She knew he would have come in if she asked him, but she wasn't upset about the dead man. After all, he had been nice to her, not like those CIA agents all those months ago. And Martha Hudson knows that John was by far not ready to come back, maybe he never would be. Sometimes she didn't feel ready to enter her own house.

Later this evening, when she was sitting in her kitchen circling crime stories in the newspaper – a habit she started to prevent Sherlock from shooting her walls – she could almost hear him, his beautiful voice "Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall." And she silently took out her handkerchief from the place where once a phone had been hidden.


	6. Sally Donovan

Sergeant Donavan was running and she was outrunning the DI even with her high heels. She had taken a long time to practise this particular ability. Once she could stop wearing the uniform and some normal clothes instead, she had trained herself to run in skirts and high heels. And it had been handy a couple of times, criminals didn't expect her to be able to run on heels. She especially liked their stunned looks when she tackled them down. Like she planned to this bank robber. Sally knew she was getting closer, although she couldn't hear his steps any more. Later she would recognise that this should have been a warning, but right now the adrenaline had taken control of her body and led her into a small alley.

A small alley, practically only illuminated by the light from the main street, making the gun in the man's hand even more dangerous. In the few moments while she had come around the corner and been greeted by the gun, the sergeant saw that the man was desperate, not only desperate enough to run from the police, but desperate enough to shoot. And while she was instinctively raising her gun, she somehow knew she wasn't fast enough. He would fire and her only chance would be his shaking hands.

Not shaking enough so that the bullets missed her. Two shots, her brain supplied. Two hits, her body told her. It seems she was caught in some kind of slow motion, glancing down her own body, seeing the blood running from her shoulder and on her stomach, before her knees buckled and she hit the ground. Two more shots and screams. Lestrade had arrived. The DI knelt beside her and looked at her with an expression she had never seen on the man before. An odd mixture of panic, worry and anger, his hands were shaking when he tried to remove her clothing. Someone else was coming, kneeling besides her and his hands were steady, calm.

"Let me see her."

"Lestrade. Let me see her."

„NOW!"

She hadn't heard that voice in months. But she still recognised it. Although it was not as remarkable as the baritone that usually had answered to this voice, it was familiar enough. Dr. Watson, Sherlock Holmes' faithful shadow.

She had never paid too much attention to the Doctor, most of the time too annoyed by the detective. But she had warned him, hadn't she? But he wouldn't listen, wouldn't stay away. Eventually she had given him up as a lost cause, ignoring his ever-present calmness near the whirlwind of Sherlock Holmes. Of course, in some way she had understood the attraction Sherlock Holmes had offered, but she had never understood what Holmes had seen in this ordinary man.

But right now, she could catch a glimpse of the detective fascination. Dr. Watson calmly examined her, giving orders to someone close by, all the while the panic and fear of her colleagues was almost palpable.

"Ambulance is ten minutes out."

"That's too long. I need a surgical kit now." Another order with the hint of urgency but the confidence of someone who had done this before.

The Doctor glanced at her, evaluating her with calm eyes and talked to her in his soothing voice. So familiar, but something was missing. Sally couldn't put her finger on it, but she tried. She tried so hard because it was better than to think about the numbness, the pain, and the strange sounds in her belly, where the bullet had hit her. Or the panic she still sensed. She just concentrated on John Watson's eyes and when he looked at her injuries, she would watch his face. She was drifting into unconsciousness, but he kept her awake. Spoke to her, told her that he worked in the building on the left, that he had heard the shooting, explained that he had to remove the bullet and to fix her artery, so they could get her in a proper OR.

And he asked her not to die on him, not on his watch.

Like most of the people at Scotland Yard Sally had also watched the footage on The Times webpage. She had also read all of the news articles about Sherlock Holmes. Kitty Riley from The Sun was trying to keep up with Nicholas Cartwright, but if Donovan was any judge, the journalist from The Times was winning. Obviously he was trying to counter any argument Riley had given the prove Holmes was a fraud. He had even talked to Lestrade asking for access to the abduction case, but he hadn't published anything on this yet. It looked as if John Watson was not the only one who believed in Sherlock Holmes.

But John Watson was the one who had seen Sherlock Holmes die.

And now he doesn't want to see her die. She could do this. It was her last coherent thought before everything collapsed into blackness.

She woke up several hours later in a hospital room of St. Mary's. The nurses and her colleagues would tell her how Dr. Watson had operated her on the street, refused to let her go when the paramedics arrived. He was even her surgeon when they finally arrived at the hospital. If she was any judge most of the staff fancied him, this ordinary looking man. She knew, he had been a surgeon back in Afghanistan. And she was certain she got an on hand experience how this man had saved hundreds of lifes in the desert. Lestrade had once said something along the lines, when she and Anderson had been making fun of the Doctor, of Sherlock Holmes' blogger. He had told them that there were some serious medals attached to the Doctor's chest when he came back. Maybe that was what had fascinated the Freak. This contrast between ordinary and extraordinary. Although it hadn't been only fascination. The detective had cared in his own way for the shorter man, even if he showed it only with subtle hints.

Sally had lots of time to think about Dr. John Watson. And equally about his late flatmate. Nicholas Cartwright had finally written down his view on the abduction case of the ambassador's children. He had even found two witnesses – one of them some Russian woman who lived opposite of 221B Bakerstreet – who provided Sherlock with an Alibi for the time of the abduction. As far as Lestrade had told her, those two seemed credible. Obviously Cartwright had even contacted Sherlock's old chemistry prof to learn whether the freak had enough knowledge to find a place just by analysing the traces on a footprint. And the professor was apparently another great fan. Several times he had praised the now dead man as one of his best students ever. He had also repeated the detective's footprint experiment with his current students. Anderson had shown her the article in a Forensic Magazine. She hadn't understood everything, but apparently what Sherlock had done was possible. Even Anderson had grudgingly accepted it.

Sergeant Donovan thought back to that night when they had found the kids. When she had said, he might have been responsible. She had no regrets for pointing out the possibility. It was part of her job keeping her eyes and mind open, not only concentrating on one solution. Even the freak couldn't have argued against that. And it had really been unbelievable. Hell, even now, although she had scientific proof that one footprint could lead to a kidnapping site, it seemed like a magic trick. And the screaming girl had been very real. Something in Sherlock's look had scared her. After that incident the ambassador had only allowed a minimum contact with his kids, eventually he had brought them back to the U.S., stating that staying in England gave them nightmares. Nightmares which apparently weren't caused by the dark haired man. No, she didn't feel regret that she had suspected him. The only thing she deeply regretted was the scene at the flat when they had arrested Sherlock Holmes. How she had gloated about being right. In front of the man who had now saved her life.

The nurses had told her that he was only working at the hospital for two days a week. When he was here, he was totally in Doctor-mode, checking on her as if Sally was a normal patient. She probably was for him, if the stories of the hospital staff were true. Obviously he had impressed them with his determination to save every life on his table. And obviously he was so busy saving lifes that he wouldn't come to visit her alone without an entourage of nurses and admiring residents. She couldn't blame him, not really, not after everything that had happened. But she needed to see him alone. She wanted to thank him and … to apologise. Lying in this damn hospital bed, hearing all those heroic stories and comparing them to her impression of this man, she finally realised what had been wrong with Doctor Watson the day he saved her life.

He hadn't cared about her, he had just cared about her not dying. She could have been anyone, it wouldn't have changed his determination to save her. As if people didn't matter any more, as if his patients were only cases. Like the late consulting detective had done his job. Lestrade had once said that Sherlock Holmes was the brain and John Watson the heart of this relationship. And now the brain was gone and had taken the heart with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention that my medical knowledge is taken from TV (Grey's Anatomy, Emergency Room), I apologise for any mistakes in that part.


	7. Kitty Riley

Kitty Riley slowly entered the surgery. The surgery where a certain Dr. Watson worked. She had made an appointment with him, using her mother's maiden name, since she was pretty sure otherwise he wouldn't see her. Okay, she was absolutely sure and she feared he might throw her out as soon as he recognised her. But maybe she could surprise him, catch him off guard. He surely wasn't expecting her. And it was her only chance.

She was nervous. This day had been one of the worst in her life so far and she had a deadline waiting. A deadline that decided about keeping or losing her job.

"Do you have an appointment?"

The receptionist addressed her.

"Oh, yes, I've called earlier. Katherine Jones for Dr. Watson."

"Dr. Watson is with another patient at the moment. Why don't you take a seat while doing the paperwork over there?"

Kitty was handed several forms and a pen. She slowly sat down, content to concentrate on something else than the nervous clinching in her stomach. When she was finished (only having problems with the normally easiest part – her name), the journalist took the time to carefully check her surroundings. Despite the relatively late hour there were still a number of patients waiting here. A TV in one corner showed some news, nothing she hadn't already heard at the office. Some were reading books or newspapers. The man opposite her was just folding his edition of The Times. Today's edition. Tomorrows could end her career. Would if she didn't make this here work.

She was trying to concentrate on the task ahead, speaking to Dr. Watson, getting him to talk. The murmur of the conversations washed over her while she was once again trying to make mental notes what she needed from the Doctor. But slowly everything what happened this morning came back.

_"Come to my office. Now!"_

_It was never a good sign to be called in your editor's office. Especially when your big breakthrough scoop had backfired on you from every possible angle. It was not so much the fact that a decorated Times-journalist examined every aspect of your story and tried to dig deeper and somehow got his hands on material that shouldn't be available to him. After all Kitty was pretty sure that her main evidence – the money trail, Richard Brook's whole CV – would hold. She knew how to do her job, how to research things, how the verify facts. What bothered her more was that in the public opinion Sherlock Holmes was no longer the fake genius, but a misunderstood samaritan who had been forced to suicide by a media campaign. And with every piece Cartwright published it got worse. People were suddenly full of fond memories how the detective had helped him. How nice he had been. Nice, of all things. Somehow she had turned in the bad guy of this story._

_Which made it almost impossible to work for her. Interviews were turned down as soon as she mentioned her name, informants became very tight-lipped. Even her colleagues who had celebrated with her the downfall of Sherlock Holmes (after all, she hadn't been the only one with personal experience of his journalist treatment), were now ignoring her. It wasn't the same kind of ignorance she had received before the Holmes-story. Back then she had only been a junior editor, just good enough for the boring stories. 'Dog chased burglar away', 'Old ladies attacked by swan'. Kitty had been a nothing in the newspaper's food chain, now she was a persona non grata. They avoided her as if she was poison._

_Kitty walked slowly to her editor's office. She was not foolish enough to believe that he might assign her for a big story, but she hoped it had nothing to do with the damn detective. When she closed the office door behind her, that hope was crashed. Despite Holmes' assessment she could read other people, though admittedly she was better when she knew them. And the look she got from her boss clearly told her that something was very wrong. Since she wasn't working on anything particular at the moment – thanks to the courtesy of The Times – it could only be Holmes._

_"How thorough have you been?"_

_The question caught her a bit off guard._

_"What did you mean?"_

_"How thorough have you been with the damn money trail?"_

_Relief flooded through her. She had this covered. Her evidence was court-worthy. At least that was what the police had told her._

_"I have the video when Holmes and Brook are opening the account. I have Holmes' signature under the account opening. The guy who had created the account had even recognised Holmes from an array of photographs. There are cash payments on the account – one video shows Holmes during this transaction. Those payments usually took place before 'Moriarty' commits a crime. A rather large sum before the Tower incident."_

_Yes, she had been thorough._

_"Why were both there?"_

_She had wondered about that too, until Brook had explained it to her._

_"From what I've understood so that both have access and don't need to answer any questions."_

_He still didn't seem satisfied._

_"Where is the cash coming from?"_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Nobody pays anything in cash anymore. If Holmes gets the money from his own account, it is traceable. Every withdrawal should match a deposit. Or does he happen to have large amounts of cash in his flat? Maybe under the mattress?"_

_Kitty was confused. Where was this heading? How was this important? She had the video tape. She had the signature. Why should she explain where the money came from?_

_"I … I don't understand."_

_Oh god, he was growing impatient. Everybody in the office knew that was a bad sign._

_"It is quite easy. How thorough have you been? You've just checked the money trail in one account. Did you check where it came from? Or were you just content with one video showing a man looking like Sherlock Holmes depositing money in the account?"_

_"What … a man looking like Sherlock Holmes? But it was him. It really was him. I recognised him. There …"_

_He interrupted her by shoving a sheet of paper in her direction. For a second she could only blankly stare at him. Then she slowly lowered her gaze. It was a proof of tomorrow's edition of The Times and it had Sherlock Holmes prominent on the cover. Two photographs of the detective. One Kitty recognised. It was taken from the surveillance video of the bank when Holmes and Brook had opened the account. The other was also taken from CCTV, but obviously from the tube. It showed Holmes covered in blood with … a harpoon? When she glanced up her confusion was obvious._

_"Look at the time stamps!"_

_They were highlighted for both photos. March 12, 2012 – 11.23 am. But how …_

_"This can't be. It must be a fake."_

_"It's not. Apparently Cartwright had coverage from the time Holmes enters the Central Line at St. Paul's, changes at Bond Street to the Jubilee Line and arrives at Baker Street. And given the video material he had already access to I'm pretty sure he will also be able to show the whole day on CCTV. Of course without any appearance at this damn bank. And to make things even better he had a forensic specialist on face recognition. You'll be surprised to hear that the man at the bank is not bloody Sherlock Holmes!"_

_The last words were practically screamed._

_"You had the scoop of the year and now we look like idiots. Thank god, I have friends at The Times so we have some time for damage control."_

_"Are you sacking me?"_

_"No, at least not now."_

_The young journalist didn't like the sound of it._

_"What … what can we do?"_

_"Well, my dear Kitty, Mr Cartwright receives anonymous packages with the video material. I think, it would be very interesting to learn about the anonymous sender. Who has such a great interest in clearing Holmes' name and access to the public CCTV?"_

_"I … I don't know."_

_"Honestly, Kitty, did you do any research on this bloke or did you just wrote down what Brook dictated you in bed?"_

_At this point, all Kitty wanted to do was to leave this office, the whole building for that matter. But she knew she had to come up with an answer, before she was allowed to leave. God, she had to think. Think! There had to be something, someone. Dr. Watson, no. Well yes, he wanted his friend's name cleared, but he couldn't have any acc … The brother! Sherlock Holmes had a brother._

_"The brother. Holmes had a brother who works for the British Government."_

_She really didn't like the desperate sound of her own voice._

"Are you alright?"

Kitty's trip to memory lane was halted by an elderly lady looking worried at her.

"You've been staring at the floor the whole time. The doctors here are pretty good, I'm sure they will fix you."

The woman patted reassuringly her arm.

"I'm fine, I'm sure the doctor will fix it."

After all, all he had to do was giving her the name and contact data of Holmes' brother. And then, maybe everything would be alright.

"Ms Jones?"

Kitty looked up.

"Dr. Watson is now free. Room 3."

"Th … Thank you."

The nervousness was back. Full force. At least I don't have to fake any symptoms, she thought wryly. She tried to remember everything about the Doctor, but Kitty had naturally concentrated her research on the detective and not the blogger. And when they were at her house she had paid more attention to Brook and Holmes. He had been pretty ordinary, pretty loyal. Like a pet. He had followed the detective immediately. And of course he hadn't believed anything she had told him. The Doctor had been totally under the influence of Sherlock Holmes. The suicide must have hit him hard; maybe she could use his mourning to get her information. Or should she pretend to see the errors of her ways? That she wanted to make everything alright? Oh, the hell with these considerations. She would decide spontaneous, depending on the Doctor's reaction.

Having come to this conclusion, she entered room 3. Dr. Watson sat at the desk, scribbling some notes. Yes, he still looked pretty ordinary, but everything about him said: Don't come closer.

"Ms Jones?"

Dr. Watson finally looked up. She saw a flash of recognition crossing his face, but otherwise he showed no reaction. His face looked haggard as if he had lost too much weight too fast. Obviously the last months had been very hard on him. That should be an advantage for her, but it alarmed her.

"Ms Jones?"

He asked again. She wondered what he was doing. He must have recognised her. He had recognised her.

"Come in. Take a seat."

His voice was steady, calm. A healer's voice. No sign of emotional struggle. Cautiously she walked to the chair in front of the desk.

"Is this just a check-up or do you have any symptoms?"

This wasn't going the way she planned, well hoped. Not at all. He was supposed to be angry, shocked, trying to throw her out. This calmness was frightening. And Kitty had no idea how to proceed.

"Ms Jones? Check-up or something acute?"

Still the calm doctor's voice. As if she was a normal patient. As if she hadn't wrote all those things about his friend. Oh god. This was wrong. On so many levels. She shouldn't be here. She couldn't be here. Once again, she felt the urge to leave a building. But this time she could act on that. Would act on that.

"I … I'm sorry … I gotta go!"

"Sure, let me walk you to the door."

Without hesitation Doctor Watson stood up behind his desk and came around. He took her by the elbow, leading her very gentlemanly to the door. He opened it for her, before he turned around again. He was saying something, but Kitty's attention was brought to his blue eyes. It was a long time since she had witnessed such a blazing rage in someone's eyes. She knew this kind of blinding rage since she was a child, she had watched far too many times how this kind of rage took hold of a perfect normal man and exploded in violence which only ended in blood and tears and sometimes broken bones. It was utterly terrifying and she felt her blood rush through her ears when anxiety kicked in. How stupid had she been. He was an army doctor. Now she remembered that. He still held her elbow. What could he do with her? Anxiety blocked everything out and it took her a while to realise that Dr. Watson did nothing. Just waited.

They were still standing at the door. He had let go of her, waiting for her to leave. The only emotion still those very dangerous fires in his eyes. And then she understood. John Watson could control this rage. After calming down a bit, she could practically see the iron chains holding back the beast. And suddenly she knew, she really knew, that those chains would hold. He would not harm her. He was a healer after all, if only the most dangerous one she had ever met. Because if John Watson was ever consumed by murderous rage he had willingly let go.

Kitty nodded then she left. Left his office, left the surgery. Left London a few days later.


	8. Mycroft

Mycroft Holmes waited for the confirmation in silence. That was one thing that Mycroft Holmes had always loved, had always craved for, even more than for desserts and cake: Simply silence. That's why he had founded the Diogenes Club. For his need of silence. But these days silence was the thing he feared most. Because there was nothing to disrupt his thoughts, his worries, his fears. These days he desperately hoped for someone to turn the page of his newspaper or a little cough, hoped for the tiniest interruption in his dark moods.

Once he had told Dr. Watson that he worried about his brother constantly. Which had been true. But it was nothing to compared to what he felt now. He cared for his brother and that made everything so much worse. Now that his brother was 'officially' dead, he could not rely on CCTV or his people to make sure Sherlock was fine. Now all he had where some hidden messages. Sometimes coordinates for one of their very few meetings, sometimes for a hiding spot to leave some money or information and on one occasion a crime scene with a dead body.

Mycroft knew that Sherlock's efforts brought results. He knew it from the seldom tales of his brother as well as from the various reports coming on his desk. Moriarty's web was slowly destroyed, but still two of his most influential men were in charge, alive and outside prison walls. Although this should change today. The tall man knew how well connected Moriarty had been. Almost as good as himself but not tied to legal or moral concerns. Not that Mycroft would let the latter come in his way, but they always slowed things down, because steps outside the morally approved had to be taken very carefully.

The British Government had known of Moriarty for a long time, longer than his brother. When Moriarty had taken an interest in Sherlock, he had finally shown a weakness, something that might come in useful. And it had been, but now he wondered if the prize hadn't been too high. When they had arrested Moriarty, learning about the key – wondering what he was up to – it was clear the Irish wouldn't talk. Only a little when Mycroft answered questions about his brother. And he had decided with Sherlock to play along.

"You will tell him everything he wants to know about me."

"We don't know what he will use it for. We have to be careful. You have to be careful, Sherlock."

"Careful won't bring this man down. He will use this to get to me. Let him get me. Let him make the first step. This time we know he will strike, so we are prepared."

They hadn't been prepared. Not for this. In the night before his 'death', Sherlock had called him from the pathologist's phone. He had coordinated his own suicide – a desperate attempt to finally, finally get an upper hand in Moriarty's game. Mycroft had never heard his younger brother like this. His voice sounded almost close to tears, desperate when he had asked for one final favour:

"Will you keep John Watson safe if I have to die? Would you do this for me?"

Mycroft's thoughts wandered to the Army Doctor, to one of their last encounters. They had also underestimated John Watson. The Doctor had figured out where Moriarty had his information from. And he had been furious with him, still so loyal to Sherlock. Once again the Doctor had surprised him. There weren't many people who could do this. Probably one of their reasons why Sherlock cared for him. And this time it wasn't a disadvantage. Because John Watson had also brought Nicholas Cartwright on the plan. Nicholas Cartwright – a decorated war journalist and a close friend of John Watson. And this Nicholas Cartwright was on a mission to clear his brother's name. Another unexpected turn of events, although much better than Moriarty's surprises.

It had been a risk sending the journalist the first videos. But a little background check had confirmed that Watson and Cartwright had known each other since university despite their different interests. They had even managed to spent time together in Afghanistan, the Doctor obviously with the Army, the journalist as war reporter. If John Watson was anything he was loyal to his friends. And although Sherlock had surprisingly become the Doctor's first priority he had stayed in touch. Mycroft trusted John's loyalties and of course the fact that Dr. Watson had saved Cartwright's life once. So it was not a great risk, more of a little test. Which the journalist passed formidably.

He decided to make Cartwright's researches much easier than they would have normally been. Other journalists had to struggle with much more paperwork and Mycroft certainly didn't send them the material to their home addresses. Usually he would deny any request of other journalists for said material, but he knew they had to be cautious. If Cartwright was the only journalist with access to the material, it would look suspicious. So he just took his time to delay the other requests. Of course he was aware that Cartwright also wondered why he had such a lucky streak. He should probably talk to the other man any time soon to prevent him from wasting precious time on researching his own sources instead of the material he got delivered.

Mycroft let his mind ponder about the future meeting with Cartwright, a welcome distraction to the waiting he had to do. He should probably meet him on the journalist's grounds. So no black-car-abduction then. A sigh. Legwork. Maybe the journalist's flat? Should be checked for weapons, after all this man had been in a war zone a long time. Introducing himself. Another risk. The archenemy posing for John Watson had been much more fun. John Watson, obviously another topic, maybe the best to start the conversation. After all it was Watson's grief that started Cartwright's investigations.

John Watson's grief. Another sigh from the tall man at the window. It wasn't unexpected but somehow Mycroft had been surprised how much the 'death' of his brother had affected the Doctor. He had seen himself personally only twice after the funeral. And he was glad he survived both times. John Watson had been a walking emotional turmoil and it was probably his military training that stopped him form hurting Mycroft. If anyone understood the meaning 'if eyes could kill' correctly it was certainly the elder Holmes by now. Oh yes, among unbelievable sadness and grief John Watson carried a murderous rage with him, but as far as he knew, the Doctor hadn't given in. Remarkable. And probably another reason why Sherlock had let the Doctor close.

And this closeness made them both so vulnerable. Sherlock hidden god knows where in the underground, simply running on adrenaline and desperation while Watson was only a shell of his former self. Mycroft kept the promise to his brother. He tried to keep John safe, having him under surveillance until Sherlock would end this. At the beginning he had wondered if the protection the Doctor needed was not from Moriarty's sniper, but more from himself. Wondered if he should tell him the truth. It was an odd feeling, caring about somebody else besides family. Not only because Sherlock requested it, but the Doctor had a way with people which made them care about him. Which was obviously proven by his support system. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Dr. Sawyer, Mycroft Holmes. And John was clever enough to seek help, he even went back to his idiotic therapist, although this time she seemed able to help. John Watson could at least function from what he gathered.

A silent knock disrupted his thoughts. Finally the report. Sherlock would be relieved. It had taken them both long enough to find the mole at the Yard, the man who was hired to kill Lestrade, the number three in Moriarty's little consulting agency. The Detective Inspector had made the arrest himself, after finding some conveniently placed evidence. This should get him back in the good books of his superiors although his superintendent was probably still holding a grudge because of the broken nose. And it was also one step closer for Sherlock's return. Only one man more to find: Sebastian Moran.


	9. Anderson

"Okay, let's get started." Thomas Anderson came to a decision. They wouldn't wait any longer for the bloody pathologist who was obviously incapable of using modern forms of communication. Like picking up his damn phone.

"But the doctor?"

"Well, we don't need him until we open the coffin. And to get this coffin, we have to dig it out first. So plenty of time for the doctor to show up."

The other man just shrugged and started digging. It would take a while, not that it mattered anymore since they had been waiting for almost forty minutes in the pouring rain and were already drenched. The small tent they had built up for protection had soon given up. He supposed they couldn't get any wetter, but since it was only in the early days of spring it was quite freezing. And the dim light didn't do anything for his mood either.

Since his digging friend insisted only he as the grave digger of this cemetery was allowed a shovel in his hands, Anderson took the time to look at his surroundings. He was a bit surprised to see that despite the early hour and the weather they weren't the only ones here. He could see a figure several meters away, oblivious to rain, just standing there silently. The man must have arrived even before them, since they had watched the gates the whole time, waiting for the doctor. Something about him seemed familiar, the way he hold him self up, but Anderson couldn't put a finger on it. His gaze stayed a little bit longer on the man, before he dismissed the feeling.

He let his mind return to the job at hand, surveilling the progress his aid had made. Still some more digging to do and the wet ground didn't make it easier. The forensic officer usually wouldn't complain about the rain, only when it threatened to tamper with the evidence. But they were here to exhume a coffin and all evidence on the ground – if there had been any – was already gone. Not only washed away by the rain, but by the hands of time. If their anonymous whistleblower was right about the two bodies in the grave, than he was probably also right about the timing. Meaning that 18 months had passed since somebody used the grave of late Arthur Spinster – as the tombstone announced – to deposit the body of Richard Brook.

The real Richard Brook. Not the one who had impersonated James Moriarty or had been impersonated by James Moriarty – it was rather confusing, but apparently Richard Brook had been a real actor who had vanished almost one and a half year ago. With his immediate family dead and as far as they had learned his few friends believing him to be abroad, nobody filed a missing person form. And certainly nobody protested when somebody else – Moriarty – claimed his place. Anderson still struggled with the idea that somebody could so easily fill another man's life.

Certainly if their source was right, Moriarty had made a quite thorough job of the identity theft. The easiest part was the actor's agency: The actor's original agent had died – something Lestrade found too convenient –, so Moriarty could choose another agency to represent him respectively Richard Brook. And since the actor had mostly appeared in little plays at tiny theatres, it was not too hard to forge the CV. The most difficult part must have been the children's DVD where Brook had been the storyteller. It was one of the last things the real Brook had done in his professional life and somehow Moriarty had got hold of almost all copies before they were released and replaced them with altered ones. Apparently some staff members of the recording company had nicked a few original DVDs and handed them to their anonymous friend.

It was all too complicated for Anderson's liking. He preferred the straight forward cases. But when had anything been straight forward when Sherlock Holmes had been involved? Even in death the man made his life difficult. He committed suicide but left a body on the rooftop from which he had jumped. They had circumstantial evidence linking him to the abduction of the ambassador's kids. But no, obviously some of his neighbours had made it their hobby to watch his comings and goings and provide him with an alibi. He had opened a bank account to finance the illusion of Moriarty, but of course it wasn't so simple – he had a doppelganger.

On the other hand, Anderson had seldom experienced an investigation which run so smoothly. Every request that was linked to the case of the detective had been granted in no time whatsoever. Anonymous sources just popped up as if there had been a sale and gave not only hints or some vague rumours. No, they delivered essential information and backed it up with evidence. Hell, for this Brook case they were presented with a comparison of dental records from the real Richard Brook and the one last seen in the morgue. Of course they didn't match, but that was his job for god's sake. Which amateur walked through London and compared dental records of a missing actor and a body with the same name? That was insane.

One had to be glad that there was anything left to do for the police. Like digging out a body. Anderson couldn't suppress a sigh. In his mind Lestrade and Donovan had the easier part, verifying some other identity details in Brook's hometown. The request for the exhumation had been more of shot in the dark, nobody believed it would be granted since they had only an anonymous source as prove. But that seemed enough nowadays. What had become of police work? Anderson wondered if somebody was actually pulling strings behind the scenes or if the department's head was worried about the damage the whole Holmes debacle had inflicted on the Yard.

Well, it didn't really matter, the effect was the same. The forensic specialist stood on a graveyard in the pouring rain and waited for a pathologist who was 90 minutes late by now. And judging from the sound his shovelling friend had reached the coffin. A quick inspection showed that indeed, they could start lifting the wooden box, but not before Anderson would have a first look to see if there was anything suspicious. But everything seemed normal. The coffin still looked pretty solid, not much affected by the soil around it. There were no obvious signs of manipulation, but the light was pretty bad. He shot some photos, although he wasn't sure what kind of information he could gather from a coffin in an open grave.

Time to get the thing up. It took them both (Anderson was allowed to help with the lifting) another ten minutes before the coffin was above the ground. In a way the work had been welcome, distracting him from the cold which he felt more and more. But by now he just wanted to get somewhere dry and warm. Another attempt to reach the doctor was as successful as his previous tries and he silently berated anybody involved in this damn case.

"What are we doing now?", his companion inquired. The rain and the cold didn't seem to bother him.

"We are still waiting for the doctor." He didn't added "obvious", but they both could hear it.

"Can't we ask another doctor?"

"Yes, of course, anybody with a medical degree will do. But since neither of us has one and the morgue obviously has some kind of staff outing that doesn't leave us with much options." Andersons snarled.

"We could ask Dr. Watson."

"Dr. Watson?" The name and of course its usual companion stirred an unpleasant whirl of emotions in Anderson. Emotions he usually didn't examine. Relief that the detective couldn't outdo him anymore at crime scenes, guilt for feeling this way, some kind of shame for Lestrade's troubles, gratitude for Donovan's rescue.

"Yes, Dr. Watson. He is over there." The man nodded in the direction of their silent companion on the graveyard. "He's one of the regulars, you know. Some people only come to anniversaries, some will visit every three or four months. Don't like to be reminded of the death, you know. But some are coming back every week for months or years. As if they had forgotten to tell the dead something important, something they should have said."

"And Dr. Watson belongs to the latter?"

"Yes. Comes mostly in the early mornings or late evenings. Only during the day when in company."

"Who is he visiting?" Anderson asked although he knew the answer.

"Name on the stone is Sherlock Holmes. Funny name, don't you think?" The other man waited several seconds in vain for an answer, before he mused: "I wonder what he hasn't told him."

That was something Anderson had no intention to think about. There had been so many rumours about these two despite the Doctor's dating history. And he really needn't any images thank you very much. But Dr. Watson was in fact a doctor. He had been in Afghanistan and he had been quite regularly at crime scenes. So he should be qualified to handle this situation. Some very small portion of Anderson knew that it would be wrong in so many ways to involve John Watson. The larger part was just cold and annoyed and wanted to get the hell out of here, so he approached the Doctor. He was indeed standing at the detective's grave.

"Doctor Watson?"

If he heard him, he showed no reaction.

Anderson called him again: "Dr. Watson?"

This time, the Doctor slowly turned around. Anderson saw recognition but otherwise the face remained passive, guarded, irons in front of his eyes.

"Yes, Anderson?"

Something in this calm voice made the forensic officer nervous, but he couldn't back off now.

"I'm exhuming a body and need a medical assessment before I can continue. Would you come over for the examination?"

Watson's eyes darted to the open grave and back.

"You ask me for a medical assessment? What about a pathologist?"

"Dr. Silver is almost two hours late and I can't get hold of him. I just really need a preliminary evaluation. Everything else will be handled in the morgue. There isn't even so much paperwork."

Anderson was getting impatient, but John Watson took his time.

"Why are you exhuming the body?"

"There may be a second body in the coffin."

"A second body?"

Really, why did they have to go through all the details. He just wanted to get out of the rain.

"If our source is right, the second guy was murdered and the body hidden in the coffin. Are you coming or what?"

The ghost of a smile hovered around John Watson's mouth.

"Aren't you afraid I will contaminate your crime scene?"

"The hell, what crime scene? There is nothing here. Only a coffin. And I just need to know if there is a second body in it or not. Is it too much to ask?"

"I'm coming."

The Doctor shot a final glance to the grave behind him before he fell in step with Anderson. When they reached the coffin, the forensic scientist saw that everything was prepared to open the lid. After a short nod, the grave digger started working on the seals.

"Anderson, Anderson. Thank god you're still here." The silence between the three men was disrupted by another voice. When Anderson turned he recognised the round shape of Dr. Silver approaching.

"I'm sorry, I'm awfully sorry. God, what a weather. Had an awful day. Car broke down. Tube delayed. I'm surprised I even made it here." Despite his looks Dr. Silver moved quite fast. Soon he had reached the grave. "Why do you open the coffin? You know the guidelines, Anderson."

This remark didn't go well with the dark haired man: "Dr. Watson is perfectly capable of fulfilling the guidelines. He was willing to take your place. Since you couldn't even answer your phone!"

Curiosity showed on Dr. Silver's round face while he ignored the Anderson's reproach: "Dr. Watson? The Dr. Watson?"

"Yes, the Dr. Watson." John Watson's calm voice forbade any further questions.

The message surely came across since the pathologist stated rather indignant: "Well, since I'm here we won't keep you. You're probably very busy."

Something like amusement showed for a second in Watson's features before he stated: "Oh, I still have some minutes. If you don't mind, I will stay. Call it curiosity." Again, despite the joviality, John Watson's voice left no room for argument. It was clear he wouldn't leave until he chose so. Dr. Silver could only shrug, turning his attention to the opening of the coffin.

During their exchange the grave digger had opened the seals and was about to lift the lid. The two doctors and the forensic officer watched while the wooden box was opened, revealing in fact two bodies. Both still in pretty good shape, although the younger man sported a hole in his head. Dr. Silver sighed before he started his examination of the bodies, observed by the other men.

Anderson experienced some kind of a déjà vu, watching somebody else examining a body while standing beside John Watson. Only this time both men stayed silent. And this time John Watson turned to leave. A simple nod as good bye and he was on his way towards the gate.

He was already a few steps away before he turned around again: "Do you know who he is?"

Knowing suddenly for sure that he shouldn't have involved Watson, Anderson hesitated before he finally whispered: "Richard Brook."

A flash of something dark appeared in Dr. Watson's eyes.

"So Richard Brook was real?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I must admit that I don't know the protocol for exhumation (probably asked the wrong questions on google). So everything in this chapter is made up from what I've seen on other crime dramas and what I needed for my story. As for the bodies in the coffin: My research says their condition could vary from looking like buried yesterday to more a less just bones, depending on the soil and the coffin. I am a little squeamish in this regard, so they look perfectly fine.


	10. Mike Stamford

With a sigh Mike Stamford downed the first gulps of his pint. He should have probably waited for his companions, but chances were they would be late. As usual. As much as he hated his job it had one thing on the plus side: He had regular hours. Although in the presence of his friends it felt like character flaw. But hey, they couldn't all be Detective Inspectors, Journalists or Trauma Surgeons.

They had started their little gatherings four months ago, meeting for some pints and some talk in a pub near one of their workplaces. Well despite Bart's. It was one of their silent rules or better the only rule: Avoiding anything related to Sherlock Holmes. Admittedly that rule had been broken, several times in fact, when Stamford, Cartwright and Lestrade had talked about the Detective. But never in the presence of John Watson. They all had seen how deeply wounded the doctor had been and they all feared – in fact, knew – that he was still bleeding. There were still those moments when he looked so fragile, so vulnerable, so hurt, beyond his friends' reach that they tried their best to avoid them. Even if it meant ignoring the elephant in the room.

Usually Stamford complained about his students, Cartwright gave anecdotes of dealing with interview partners, even Lestrade managed to joke about his job, clearly avoiding anything that could lead to a certain Consulting Detective. On occasion John managed to add some stories of his own. And although the tiptoeing around John made their conversations sometimes strained, it was a common understanding that they would continue this. What had started as some kind of therapy for John, had evolved in a companionship that none of them wanted to miss.

"Hello Mike."

Nick Cartwright was the first one to arrive. Despite his normal outfit, he still seemed alert, ready to hide if needed to. Old habits die hard.

"Nick. Hello. In time today. What a nice change."

"Oh, shut up. We can not all have cosy teaching jobs, harassing innocent young kids."

"Hah, innocent kids. I could tell you stories."

"Later, first I need something to drink. Heard something from the others?"

"John should be around soon if he hasn't found himself an emergency. Greg will be probably late, some big breakthrough."

"Anything interesting?"

"Well, I may or may have not heard something about the abduction case with the ambassador's kids." Mike grinned like a Cheshire Cat.

"No way. How do you even hear such things? I work for the media, I should hear them first."

"You know, when you are really nice to people, they tell you something. You should try. It's better than your hardcore war journalist routine."

They both grinned now. Mike had always a thing with people. He didn't know why but people would tell him the most intimate things within minutes of their acquaintance. It was a bit annoying being always the shoulder to cry on and since his students did the same, he avoided them as much as he could. Their problems were always the same, they weren't interesting. The doctor preferred the company of people who could shut up or had at least fascinating problems. That's why he had genuinely liked Sherlock Holmes. The man had never spoken about himself, but had always some interesting question at hand. He really missed him.

"Did you hear anything specific?"

Mike heard the professional curiosity in Nick's voice. They had spoken at lengths about the detective, Mike being the place to go if anything new came up, to check whether it was something Holmes would have done, sharing theories. Mike wouldn't have talked to any other journalist, but they had known each other since their University days and they were both worried about John Watson.

"Something about an arrest."

"An arrest, really?" Nick looked as if he might dash to the yard, getting more information, working in his head at the next article.

"An arrest? Who was arrested?" John Watson had arrived, hearing obviously the last part of their conversation. An uncomfortable silence settled while John looked at both of them expectantly. Mike and Nick shared nervous glances.

"Ehm, an old case of Lestrade's. Just something he mentioned." Mike tried his best to sound convincingly nonchalant about this, but he could easily hear how false it sounded.

Obviously, John also could. He looked as he might insist on a more detailed answer. But then, thankfully, he changed his mind. "And here I thought, you had plotted something against your students to get rid of them."

"That's what I should do. You wouldn't believe it how stupid they were the other day." Relieved Mike started an exaggerated tale how a group of students had nearly destroyed one of St. Bart's labs. John and Nick humoured him with disbelieving exclaims while slowly emptying their pints and letting the short moment of awkwardness flow away.

They were well into their second ones, having settled on anecdotes of their University years when Lestrade arrived. He looked exhausted, but that seemed to be his default look by now as Stamford recalled. Sherlock's death had caused him a lot of trouble from what Mike heard through the grapevine. He had most of his cases reviewed, there was even talk that he might get sacked. Thank god, all cases had been waterproof. But what helped most was Sherlock being innocent in the abduction case. From what he heard the DI was gaining back the respect from his superiors, especially after he discovered the mole in the Yard.

Greg had barely time to fall in his seat and signal the waiter for a pint, when John blurted out:

"Who did you arrest?"

Lestrade startled up and looked at him. When he didn't answer, the shorter man repeated his question:

"Who did you arrest, Greg?"

"Ehm, some bloke … an old case of mine. Nothing important." He managed. Mike and Nick had gone totally still, watching the interchange with an odd mixture of curiosity and worry.

"Don't lie to me. I know it has something to do with Sherlock. Just tell me." The army doctor insisted.

"Really, John, there is nothing to tell. It was just an old ca…"

"No!" John slapped one hand vigorously on the table. "Don't you dare lying to me. He lied to me. He lied to me in his very last moments. And then he let me watch him die. I can't … Just … No more lies, please. … Please." His violent outburst turned almost into a sob. With horror his three friends watched him gaining slowly some control over his emotions.

"Please, Greg, please, just tell me." John's voice was begging now, frantic with emotion: "It's alright. I'm sorry. But I need to know. If it has something to do with him, I need to know."

"Why do you think it has something to do with Sherlock?" Nick interrupted.

What he received would have been a snarl on a normal man, but turned into another sob.

"I know you want to protect me. You all do. Don't want to hurt my feelings. That's why you never speak about Sherlock with me. But I've read your articles about him. You're investigating him. You only write about politics, military stuff and about Sherlock. So, when Mike told you about the arrest, it has to do with him. Especially given your reaction after my initial question. You didn't want to answer."

It was strange how much this little speech reminded Stamford of the Detective. Of course, they had been pretty obvious in their avoidance. And seeing how emotional John reacted now it still seemed the best course of action. But not today. Today was talking-day. Well, the better description would be grieving day. Stamford had experienced two of those break-downs with John, when the military stance couldn't keep the emotions inside any longer. He still blamed himself for the first one, having asked John to come over to Bart's and tell his students about the life of an army surgeon. He had asked John if it was okay for him, they could arrange it elsewhere since even for him it was hard walking by the spot where Sherlock had landed. And he hadn't been as close to the man as John. But the army veteran had told him it was okay. And it was. The break down came later, on their way home, when they passed Sherlock's lab, the one where the two had met for the first time.

Mike knew that John was pretty open expressing happiness or anger, but he practically never showed his pain. It had been terrifying to see this normally stoic man break apart and he had never felt so helpless. The second time started harmless enough. John had seen the picture of Sherlock blood-covered in the tube and launched into the description of their Baskerville adventure which ended in silent tears when he recalled how Sherlock had called him his only friend. He knew from Nick and Greg that they had also sat through their share of John's breakdowns with him. It didn't happen often, probably not often enough for his therapist to call it progress. But every time it was triggered by something related to Sherlock. That's why the friends avoided the topic on their pub night, that's why they never went near Bart's. They wanted to ensure that John's moments of grief only happened in private, otherwise he would be ashamed afterwards for losing his control in public. They would stir away when the topic came to close or move their location just to be safe. But Mike could see this wouldn't go well with the army doctor today.

"What do you want to know?" It seemed Greg had come to the same conclusion. Judging from the uncertainty in his features, he wasn't sure what to expect. Well, neither of them was.

"Who did you arrest?" Greg's willingness calmed John.

"An actor. Long criminal record. Nothing too major, always came out pretty soon."

"So what has he to do with Sherlock?"

"We suspect him responsible for the abduction of the ambassador's kids."

Greg must have decided that answering the questions more or less literally was the best way of action. Stamford wasn't so sure about it.

"How?"

"He hid in the building while the other children were collected."

"Damn Greg." Another outburst from John. "Can't you just explain what happened?"

Lestrade sighed.

"Apparently he had high debts on bets. He was contacted if he wanted to pay his debts by favours. First little things: Working as a messenger, hiding packages in his flat. The messages became drugs and drug money, the packages stolen goods and weapons. He was getting more and more involved. Until one day he was told to dress up as Sherlock, learning to imitate his signature. The first job as Sherlock was easy, posing as him in the bank and opening an account. The second one were the kids. He claims, the job was simply to take them and hide them in the factory. He never meant any harm."

A bitter laugh escaped John. "No harm." He shook his head. "No harm."

"And does he really look like Holmes?" Nick interfered.

"Well, not really. Not without dressing up." Greg answered. "But he showed us. With the make up and the hair done, it is pretty close. If you don't know him good enough, you would believe it. Hell, if I had seen him on the other side of the street, I certainly would believe it."

He glanced nervously at John: "I'm sorry, John. I really am. I wish we had found him sooner."

"No, don't apologise. Just … no. You were a great friend to him. Yes, you were. … Thank you … For telling me, I mean. It helps. Knowing helps."

John looked strangely calm, more balanced, despite the sadness in his eyes. But he hadn't fallen back on his army training by now.

"I just … I just wish I understood why. Why he lied to me? What Moriarty told him? Why he had to jump? ... Just why?"

His last words were merely a whisper, hardly to understand against the noise from the pub. He wouldn't break down today, Mike was sure of that. But it would take a miracle for John to heal completely. Because only the Sherlock Holmes could answer why.


	11. Molly

One year.

Today it was one year that Sherlock Holmes staged his own death.

One year fearing she might somehow betray him, might tell someone the truth. In the first weeks she had been paranoid and so jumpy. Luckily her colleagues thought it was part of her mourning Sherlock's death. Apparently her obvious infatuation for the detective was at least useful for something. The other pathologists never questioned her, just accepted her strange behaviour. She wondered if Sherlock had counted on it when he had chosen her. Knowing that her being in love with him would keep his secret in every possible way.

Besides the panic to be discovered a foolish hope had once again nested in heart. The hope that he would come to see her again, talk to her or at least give her a sign. But he never did. Probably for safety reasons, her heart provided. A cynical part of her brain believed he had used her once again.

_You can see me._

Yes, she had seen him. Not only that day. That day when he thought he might die. All the time. He had been so unlike every other person she'd ever met. When he came into a room he had commandeered all the attention on him – with his looks and his brain and his voice. Every time he had actually paid attention to her, it had been captivating. And she had craved for more. Which was pretty pathetic, considering that most of the time he only had paid attention to her when he needed something. Body parts, access to the lab or the morgue, seeing a body again.

She wondered what he would made out of the body in front of her. Retired Colonel Sebastian Moran, had been last stationed with the Brunei Garrison of the British Army. According to his Army file he had even survived a tiger attack by shooting the animal and with that saved a whole village from the man-eater. He was still in good shape. Thad hadn't prevented him from receiving a pretty thorough beating just before his untimely death. Several bruises, broken ribs, maybe a punctured lung, but that would the autopsy clarify. Judging from the results, the attacker knew what he was doing, maybe a medical degree. Well, the one who left the body behind certainly knew what he was doing. The whole body was meticulously clean. There were no fibres, no hair, nothing under the fingernails. Molly was a little bit surprised the bullet was still in the man's head, but the weapon probably couldn't be tracked down.

She took her time with the examination of the body, working with Sherlock had taught her that. Watching closely to see if any traces of the attacker were left behind on the body, combing the hair for good measure a third time, checking finger- and toenails. And found … nothing. The Yard wouldn't be pleased. Sherlock would, of course, but he was still 'dead'. With a sigh Molly started opening the body. She doubted that she would find anything in the body that would help to find the killer – beside the bullet, but maybe she could give the police some other clues.

Three hours later her suspicions were confirmed. The only thing she could tell the police was the obvious fact that Sebastian Moran was shot from a short distance after a severe beating. This would be a one of her shortest autopsy reports. Not the shortest though.

_Molly, I think I'm going to die._

The shortest was still Sherlock. When she had thought of doing Sherlock's autopsy, she had always thought he would have fallen of the wagon and die of cocaine (oh yes, she knew about that) or be a victim of his own mad murder chases. She certainly hadn't thought she would write the whole thing with him standing behind her, dictating her the description of his body details and scars and his cause of death while he was washing the fake blood and the tear stains from his face. His brother had come by, officially to identify the body, but bringing some new clothes for Sherlock and another corpse with him. Judging from the smell, it was one of the homeless. Astonishingly both brothers had helped giving this body some kind of resemblance to Sherlock and matching the wounds to the autopsy report. Molly wasn't quite sure why they made the effort, because she had never before released a body faster to the family. Probably some kind of safety measurement if somebody would actually ask for the body. But nobody had come.

_I've always trusted you._

When Sherlock had left that day with his brother, it was strange seeing him without his trademark coat in a simple jeans and a plain longsleeve shirt, a cap hiding his dark curls. He looked so lost, so vulnerable, so unlike the guarded man he usually was, that she couldn't help but hug him.

"Stay safe."

That got her a small smile: "Unlikely. But I try my best." Slowly he had disentangled himself, kissed her on her forehead and then left without another look back.

It took Molly a while but then she realised she was staring at the door. She had been doing this a lot during the past year. Staring at doors, at a body in front of her, at lab samples. With a sigh she returned to the present and collected the samples of bodily fluids she had taken on the victim. She could bring them to the lab before fetching a small lunch at the canteen. Some of her colleagues should be there. She could need some kind of distraction even if it was someone mocking her. All those memories of Sherlock, of the last time she'd seen him were getting to her.

_I wasn't everything what you think I am._

She had wondered back then what he exactly meant with those words. She was still pondering about them in some of those many sleepless nights, when she had just her cats and her thoughts to keep her company. Molly was pretty sure she knew Sherlock. She had been at the end of his worst and she had seen him on his best behaviour. Well, on his best to everyone but John. She had never asked what they were to each other, partly because she feared the answer, partly because it was enough to see Sherlock almost happy. Partly if she didn't know she still could dream. Daydream about Sherlock with her, in a relationship. Doing normal things, sharing breakfast, going to the cinemas. Molly knew that she was probably deluding herself in more than one way with this fantasy since the detective had never been to one going for 'normal'. Well, a girl was allowed to have her little fantasies.

Being once again distracted by thoughts of a 'dead man', it took her a moment to register that there was something unusual about the lab section. The lights were on in Sherlock's lab. They shouldn't be, it was barely used these days. Even before his 'death' most of her colleagues had kept a safe distance to this room fearing the detective was around, after his disappearance it got even worse, as if the lab had turned into some sacred site and everybody who got in was haunted.

Had he come back?

Slowly she opened the door and recognised a familiar figure.

Not the detective though.

John.

When Molly entered the room, he turned around and for a moment she caught a glimpse of incredible sadness before his face turned into a neutral mask. There was still some sadness in his eyes, but this could be the light. She hadn't seen John since the funeral, had kept her distance. Because Sherlock had been practically the only thing they had in common. And he was gone. And because she feared she couldn't handle his grief without spilling Sherlock's secret. It had been so hard at the funeral, the short moment when she gave him her condolences, not to react to this incredible misery she saw. She had almost sobbed with relief when somebody else had reached for John's attention and she could go away. Today should be easier if he kept this neutral face.

An awkward silence stretched out between them.

"I'm sorry … I just saw the light."

Molly hesitated, not quite sure how the protocol was for meeting the best friend of the man she helped faking his own death. Especially when said friend had no clue about the matter.

"No. It's alright. I just … I just wanted to see … We met here for the first time, you know." He ran a hand through his hair. "Mike introduced us. He just looked at me and knew everything." He snorted. "Well, almost everything. He got my sister wrong. Annoyed him to no end." Half a smile, barely visible. "You brought him coffee, I think."

If Molly had thought the funeral had been the hardest, she was proved wrong. With every piece of memory her heart broke a bit more. Damn Sherlock. Him and his idiotic, brilliant plans.

"I'm so sorry, John."

He looked at her with surprise.

"Why should you be sorry? You didn't know he was going to jump."

Molly was pretty sure, her heart had stopped momentarily beating.

Because she had known.

She had known Sherlock was going to jump.

And she knew that he had survived this.

Suddenly the guilt was overwhelming. Lying to this man who obviously cared, suffered so much. She simply turned around and stumbled out of the lab, running away. Running away from those sad eyes before she could betray his best friend. She heard him come after her, calling her, but she refused to stop. She couldn't do this. This was so wrong.

She was shaking when she arrived at her office, turning the lock at her door and leaning panting against it.

When she had asked Sherlock what he needed, she hadn't expected it to be this hard. She hadn't thought about how this would affect others. She had just wanted to help. And there was this little pride that he had chosen her to share his secret, not John.

_You do count._

But did she really? Sherlock had explained that John's grief had to be genuine, that it would protect him. Obviously her reaction wouldn't matter.

Did she really count?

Not as much as John, Molly thought.


	12. Sherlock

When Sherlock Holmes entered the graveyard it was just dawning. Despite the semi-darkness he found his way easily around the graves and monuments, until he arrived at his destination. One of the few places where he had a free sight on the grave. On his grave. In a morbid way, he liked his resting place. Slightly away from the others, but with a good view. His brother had chosen nicely. The same could be said for the tombstone. Just his name, nothing else. He wondered if Mycroft had deliberately chosen to miss out the dates of his birth and 'death' so the stone could be used again. But maybe there were rules against re-using a tombstone for the same man. He'd have to ask John.

John.

The reason why he waited in the semidarkness. The detective had tried to find John in town, but the doctor hadn't been in his flat or the hospital or in Baker Street. Knowing his friend he was probably walking aimlessly, trying to handle his emotions. But Sherlock was sure he would come here, to his grave. According to his brother's reports, John had been here every week; he would come on the first anniversary of his death. It was only a matter of time, he had to be patient. Patience. One thing he wasn't very good at. Normally, he just would claim what he wanted for himself. Rushing right into it.

And now he wanted to go back to life. Reclaiming his life as it was taken by Moriarty. Thanks to John's journalist friend it would be easier than anticipated. His name was cleared and if the tabloids were anything to go by, he was even more famous than before. At this thought he frowned. Becoming a media hero had started all this, he should have paid more attention to John's warning. After all, John knew about these things. If John was still willing to talk to him. Sherlock wasn't sure how the doctor would react to him being alive, faking his own death. Relieved? Probably. Angry? Also likely. But beyond, he had no idea. He just knew, he had to come to John first. He wasn't sure why – guilt maybe. Sentiment – of all things? But he would wait; wait for the army doctor to come to his grave, because this was the only way to start his return in the right way. He just hoped, John would come soon, although he would wait as long as it took.

But after the last year, he was almost desperate to be himself again. Not living in the underground anymore, chasing Moriarty's network, Moriarty's killers. Sebastian Moran had been the final problem, his final problem – though he doubted Moriarty had this in mind, when he called their last challenge this way. The worst part had been the loneliness. Before John, it hadn't mattered; he had been always able to fill the silence easily. With his violin, talking to the skull. But during the last year, what he missed most was John's presence. Talking to him, laughing with him, enduring his caretaking. Sherlock hoped he could get this back, their friendship.

Three times during the last year, he had watched the doctor. He had seen the changes in his friend. The changes the detective had forced upon him. They would be harder to cure than a psychosomatic limp, but Sherlock hoped there was a cure. He never intended to damage his friend. His only friend. That was the reason he had lied to John on that rooftop, offering the doctor an out. But the man was too stubborn; he had refused to listen, to believe. It had been infuriating, but it was one thing that kept the detective going in those dark nights while he was following another of Moriarty's men, taking them down. Sometimes with the help of his brother, sometimes with the arm of the law, sometimes with the aid of a rivalling criminal and only twice with his own gun, just to be on the safe side.

The darkness was gone, but the day hadn't yet started. It still hold the peaceful silence of the night before. Though Sherlock Holmes had no eye for the wonders of the new day or his surroundings. He was lost in thought, in waiting. Waiting for John. The detective had to learn the hard way how to wait for something, how to endure anything for a better outcome. It had been so painful waiting hidden in the Molly's morgue the day he 'died'. Dictating his own autopsy report. Waiting for his brother. Waiting for everybody to disappear so he could escape. Unnoticed by the staff, unnoticed by the police.

The first week he had been hiding in one of his brother's houses, dissecting all the material about Moriarty's network his brother had collected. They had debated the best way to destroy it and even agreed on a plan. Mummy would have been so proud. Once he had been at the graveyard, watching John and Mrs. Hudson. He had left London that night, travelling on a fish trawler, courtesy of Mycroft. It hadn't mattered. In hindsight the fish trawler had even been one of his best travel opportunities during the past year. Apparently playing dead man, hiding from the public and the criminal world weren't beneficial to first class travel. The same could be said for a regular diet and sleeping schedule. A small smile lingered around his lips, John wouldn't have liked it.

The first visitors came to the graveyard. Carrying flowers, gardening tools and cans to the graves of their beloved ones. On the opposite site he could see the grave digger, preparing another funeral, another hole in the ground. He watched the process with some fascination, observed the other visitors. Saw the ones whose loss was long ago, saw the tears of others.

But none of them was John.

He could have asked his brother where the doctor was. But somehow this seemed fitting. Emerging from the grave, almost literally. Mycroft had always accused him of having a thing for the dramatic. John had seemed to enjoy his little theatrics. He had never been short of praising.

"Brilliant."

"Amazing."

"Fantastic."

What would he say now?

The grave diggers took a break, eating sandwiches, drinking tea from thermal jugs. A pickpocket has joined the visitors. Obviously not very experienced, otherwise he hadn't chosen a location where everybody would be so aware of strangers joining his vicinity. Well, at least he was clever enough to recognise his mistake after two of his intended victims acknowledged his presence. He would probably try his luck at the tube.

Another hour passed by. Still no sign of John. When he studied the changed patterns of the shadows a young woman with a toddler – just home from job, waitress, elder neighbour took care of baby, father of baby left before birth, mother died three months ago – approached one of the graves near him. He moved a bit to give her a bigger comfort zone but without loosing his view on his grave. Several times she watched him questioningly, trying to suss him out. He wondered what she would made of him, aware that it was probably a far shot from the truth. Only a few people were able to read him properly: his brother, his mother, sometimes John and on very rare occasions Lestrade or Mrs Hudson.

And of course Moriarty.

At the beginning it had been interesting playing the game with Moriarty. Finally something that wasn't boring. But that had changed. When Moriarty threatened those close to him, it stopped being a game. Moriarty had to be stopped. At all costs. It had been a risk letting him walk free out of Mycroft's prison, handing him all the information. And it had been almost too late when he finally understood what the Consulting Criminal intended. At least too late for any elaborate plans, just a desperate last minute attempt. Well, it had worked. But he had to hurt those close to him. Hurt them so much. Too much?

Mycroft was right, caring was not an advantage. But he couldn't stop, had not been able to stop during the last year. So he made it to his advantage. Friends protect people. That's what he did. Protecting his few friends. So he could come back home, make things right. He was glad it was over. Leaving the interrogation room with Moran's body to Mycroft's capable people had been his last deed undercover. Mycroft would deal with any remains of Moriarty's network. Sherlock would deal with homecoming. As soon as he had spoken to John.

Once again his gaze searched the grounds of the graveyard for signs of the army doctor. Once again his search remained fruitless. The woman with the toddler had left a short while ago, so Sherlock took his former spot which was clearly better suited for his needs. It was turning afternoon and the grave diggers had finally finished their job, leaving the open tomb marked with some safety rope for careless pedestrians. Although only a few visitors were still on the grounds. Not long and he would be alone again.

Returning his attention to the ever changing shadow pattern, he almost missed the arrival of the one person he waited for the whole day. The army doctor held himself with military stance, approaching the grave with careful strides. Sherlock took a moment to watch his friend, to evaluate the changes, before he slowly made his way to John. The man clearly hadn't slept in the last night and been on his feet the whole day. The detective saw dust patterns of at least four different London areas – Brixton, South Bank, Westminster, Smithfield. Coming nearer he could smell the always disgusting scent of hospital disinfection – Bart's? Had John visited places of their cases?

Sherlock watched his friend carefully. During the day he had seen all kind of behaviour from the other visitors on the graveyard. Some had cried, some had talked, some had just cleared the grave as if it had no personal meaning for them. Almost one year ago he had watched John's breakdown, had seen him recover before the man went away. He hadn't known what he should make of this. Today was different. John was calm.

Sherlock was now just a few steps behind his friend. The grass had silenced his steps and John had been too lost in thought to hear him approaching. But Sherlock could determine the exact point when John saw Sherlock's reflection in the tombstone. That was the moment the doctor started to tremble. The detective could see from the turn of his head that John was watching him coming nearer, but he didn't turn around to confirm what he saw in the grave mirror. He just clenched his fists, holding himself more rigid than before. Sherlock thought he heard a soft whisper of his name, but it was so faint, that he wasn't sure.

Finally, FINALLY!, he was directly behind his friend. Carefully he laid a hand on those tensed shoulders, noticing the little flinch, before he lowered his head to whisper:

"I'm not dead, John."


End file.
